


What is a Legacy?

by WildandWhirling



Category: Fable 3 (Video Game)
Genre: Background Elliot/Hero of Brightwall, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Past Hero of Bowerstone/Reaver, Rating Because Reaver Can't Keep His Mouth Shut, The concept of Reaver with a child is horrifying so I had to write it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25885777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildandWhirling/pseuds/WildandWhirling
Summary: It wasn’t that children scared him. There was very little that could scare him, and those were certainly much more arcane and imposing than a domesticated Hobbe.No.They were simply...unnerving. Straightforward. Inquisitive. And with that very strange sense that they could see through every pretense while remaining utterly unaware of their own power. Much less when they looked at him with Sparrow’s-well, Sparrow’s eyes before they took on that rather radiant glow after their second meeting.A pleasant evening is ruined by the appearance of the Queen of Albion's spawn, who has a series of questions for his (alleged) grandfather.
Relationships: Hero of Brightwall & Reaver, Original Child Character & Reaver (Fable)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 23





	What is a Legacy?

**Author's Note:**

> During my playthrough, my Hero of Brightwall got pregnant on her wedding night, and I realized that we've missed out on the opportunity for Grandpa Reaver, especially since it gives me an opportunity to do one of my personal favorite hobbies: Torturing Reaver.

Marie-Josephine, Queen of Albion, didn’t elect to move her Prince Consort and children to Bowerstone Castle until well after the Crawler had been defeated. There had been too much anxiety in the air, and, of course, the unfortunate possibility that the entire royal family could be wiped out during a single attack. 

No, she kept them safely sequestered in a hunting lodge in Mistpeak Valley. Which Reaver believed to be a little  _ excessive _ , but...well. They certainly faced no problems. Though he had to suspect that it would be mind-numbingly dull to be locked away in there all the time. Then again, given what he knew of….what was his name? Elias? Edwin? It didn’t matter. Anyway, given what he knew of the man, it seemed like “mind-numbingly dull” was a specialty of his. 

He had no qualms with his spawn’s marital decisions, but it seemed so  _ strange _ for someone who was half him and half Sparrow, who had wonderful taste in partners, barring one unfortunate exception, to choose someone so utterly unremarkable.

He didn’t even use a  _ pistol _ . 

Personally, Reaver believed that she simply didn’t want the irritating brats scampering about, impeding  _ business _ . A belief that was further confirmed the first time that he was cornered by the creature, who stood in his way as he had been on his way to enjoying a lovely view of the Castle grounds after yet another refusal from Marie-Josephine on one of his more brilliant ideas. 

The sun had just started to dwindle in the sky, streaking it in shades of red and gold (always a favorite combination of his), the statuary that dotted the hedgerows casting dark shadows along the grounds, absolutely perfect for anyone who wanted a moment of secrecy, and servants scurried along, already preparing to light the lanterns that hung along the walls. (He chose, pointedly, to avoid the dome that loomed in the distance, gilt in the dying rays of the sun.) He had walked those marble-paved pathways enough to know that, in a few hours, it would be a totally different world, one of shadows and pinpricks of light strewn across the sky and the garden. Not that he had any intentions of lingering longer, when he had much more exciting business to tend to in Millfields...and much more exciting business partners. 

And then, of course, he ran into Marie-Josephine’s spawn mid-stride, the cretin blocking his way most effectively. 

“I’m Pádraic!” It said, grinning at him with gapped teeth. He’d forgotten that they shed their teeth as they grew. How revolting.

He forced a polite smile on his face. “Isn’t there a nice workhouse for you to go to?” 

The little brat stared at him with wide blue eyes that - Very well, were a little too much like  _ her _ for comfort. (Even in death, it seemed like she was determined to haunt him. How inconsiderate of her.) “Are you my grandfather?” 

There was something that seemed so... _old_ about the term. So dusty. Just because a man lived for three hundred years didn't mean that he wanted to feel like it. 

He scowled. “ _ No _ . No I am not, and furthermore--Look at me! Do I even look old enough to be a grandfather?” True, the Shadow Court had been less... _ generous _ with their end of the bargain in recent years, but he was still too young to be a grandfather. No. Perish the thought. The child needed to have its eyes checked. 

It blinked for several seconds, looking him up and down. “Yes. Or at least, I think so. I’ve never had a grandfather before. You’d be the first.” 

...He needed to have a long chat with the Shadow Court. Or, better yet, send someone else to speak with them. Obviously  _ something _ had gone dreadfully wrong. Perhaps they’d had a severe Will cut over the years. Not enough hapless, weak youths willing to make unwise bargains. 

It wasn’t that children scared him. There was very little that could scare him, and those were certainly much more arcane and imposing than a domesticated Hobbe. 

No. 

They were simply...unnerving. Straightforward. Inquisitive. And with that very strange sense that they could see through every pretense while remaining utterly unaware of their own power. Much less when they looked at him with Sparrow’s-well, Sparrow’s eyes before they took on that rather radiant glow after their second meeting. 

He attempted to remain as open and friendly as possible, lightening his voice even as he leaned his cane forward in a way that, to those who knew him well, was understood to very clearly be a sign of danger. (He would not kill the eldest son of the Queen of Albion. It would be very bad for business. That it would destroy Marie-Josephine was of no concern to him.) “My dear boy, whatever would give you such a preposterous notion as that?” 

“Well...” the child said, scratching at its chin in a way that was positively unrefined, and, really, who had  _ raised _ him? It showed a great amount of neglect on Marie-Josephine’s part. He understood wanting to be as far away from the spawn as possible, however that gave her no right to inflict it on upstanding members of society. 

Though, of course, it wasn’t her fault. Really, it was that-that whelp Elijah. While he had impeccable taste in the end, Reaver was never entirely sure if he could trust any man who had chosen Lisa or….or whatever the woman’s name was who was so inconsiderately annoying, over royalty. 

“My mum and dad were fighting, and I listened in at the door. Dad said that you were…” he squinted his eyes, “‘Totally amoral’ and if she brought you here, you would just suggest whatever was best for you. Mum said that she knew that, but that she needed to at least pretend to hear you out, and that you know how to raise money like no one else.” 

  
  
“ _ Pretend _ ?”

_ Really _ , his own daughter...   


“Dad said that he was worried that pretending to consider bad options could lead to accepting them, and Mum said that wouldn’t happen, and Dad said that he trusted her, but he didn’t want her to go down Ki-Uncle Logan’s path, and she asked if he wasn’t sure that he meant to say ‘down her father’s path’ and he said that her being your daughter didn’t mean anything to him...If you’re my mum’s father, that makes you my grandfather, doesn’t it?” 

Its logic was  _ impeccable _ . And a rarity, in their family. 

“It’s very rude to listen in on conversations where you aren’t wanted,” he replied, gritting his teeth into a smile. 

“But they say so much that they don’t around me!” 

Against his own will, he had to chuckle. “Little rogue.” He had to feel a certain sense of pride. Not six years old, and he already had a taste for gossip. Perhaps there was more of him in the boy than he was willing to admit.

He certainly didn’t inherit it from his grandmother. (Poor, serious Sparrow. So humorless on the outside, so much  _ fun _ when driven into a passion.) 

Their rather one-sided if not entirely uninteresting conversation was halted by the arrival of none other than the Queen of Albion herself, along with her consort. The two of them were a contrast, Marie-Josephine decked in a gown of red and black, black hair twisted upwards, pistol secured by her side (at least one of his children had inherited his impeccable fashion sense, though Logan wasn’t  _ totally _ irredeemable in that sense), Elliot in dull shades of gold and white. Really, how she let him out of the bedroom looking like  _ that _ was beyond his comprehension. 

“Pádraic!” She scooped the boy up with an ease that betrayed her natural propensity for Strength, even if she chose to exclusively use Skill. 

“Ah, my dear! A pleasure as always. No hard feelings about the throne room, hm? I know that, of course, you looked over my proposals with  _ all _ due diligence.” He took no notice of her consort standing beside her, choosing to ignore the furniture. 

Had she lived a different life, he was absolutely certain that his daughter would have made a formidable poker player, and not simply because she was a capable enough markswoman to shoot anyone who attempted to argue. (Really, one night in a gambling den in Bowerstone and the next thing he knew, he was labeled as “a menace” and greeted with signs that said “All welcome...except Reaver.”) 

No, Marie-Josephine did not show the slightest signs of registering what he had just said, only answering back with, “ _ Papa _ .” 

If he hadn’t known any better, he would have been absolutely sure that she was mimicking his accent. Insolence. Utter insolence. (She really was his daughter.) 

“Reaver.” Dwarfed by Marie-Josephine’s height, almost a match for Reaver's own, Elian bristled almost impressively. Reaver was reminded slightly of a kitten doused in water, fur on end and filled with indignated outrage. 

“Ah, Emilio! I almost didn’t see you there!” 

“Mama!” Pádraic clung onto her neck, and Reaver was reminded of a tick attaching itself to a host. “I was just talking to Grandpa!”    
  


“Yes,” Reaver said, not even bothering to correct being addressed as ‘Grandpa’, “Your son is an  _ excellent _ conversationalist, I must say.” 

“Finally found someone who could keep up with you, Reaver?” Elliot said. 

“In time, in time, despite his...questionable earlier education.” 

“Pádraic,” Marie-Josephine’s voice cut through what had been shaping up to be an excellent sparring match, “It’s time to go in. You can play for an hour more afterwards, but after that, it’s time for bed.” 

  
“But  _ Mum _ , there’s still light out!” 

“It’s summer, so that means there’s more light in the day. But,” she said, taking on a look of mock severity, “Bedtimes stay the same, no matter what.” 

“I’d listen to her,” Elliot added, giving an exaggerated shudder. “I’ve learned to cower beneath that sharp tongue of hers.” 

  
“I’m sure you have,” Reaver murmured, raising an eyebrow. If she was anything like her mother in that respect...

“What does that mean, Grandpa?” Pádraic asked with...really, too much naivety. Had he ever really been like  _ that _ ? 

“I’m sure your mother will explain, when you’re older.” 

“But Mum, I’ve been having so much fun!” 

  
  
And, for one terrible, cursed moment, he was reminded of another little boy, in Oakvale, who always hated being called in from the fields when the sun had begun to sink into the sky, where he liked to play with the toy gun that his parents had given him for his birthday. Who would excitedly tell his family over dinner about how many bullseyes he had made on the crudely painted targets that he liked to practice on. Who would drag himself up to his bed and dream of becoming a pirate, an explorer, or a hero, like the Hero of Oakvale himself, anything but living and dying in obscurity in a small village, covered up to his breeches in filth and grime. 

That stupid, naive, weak boy who had died along with the rest of Oakvale. 

He looked over to that same dome from earlier, falling rapidly into shadow under the approach of night.  _ This is all your fault _ , he thought. He didn’t know exactly how it was Sparrow’s fault, of course, given that she was, as of his last remembrance, very dead, however he had no doubt that she had done  _ something _ . He was still unattached to the little mealworm. However, perhaps if he helped the future King of Albion dodge his bedtime one time, it would be useful in some way. 

Surely it had to be worth at least  _ one _ tax break. 

“Actually…” Reaver said, “I had promised him a complete tour of the castle.”    
  
“You?” Elliot asked. 

“It’s been some time since I’ve had a full walk of the grounds, for old time’s sake. And I might know the odd secret passage or so.” Unmentioned was the one that ran right into the Queen’s chamber from behind a rather curiously placed portrait of Sparrow in one of the corridors. 

No, he would let them discover that one on their own. They were always so adorably scandalized when they found one more piece of the ever-shifting puzzle that was that chapter of his life. 

“Really, Grandpa? Secret passages?” 

“I’m not going to ask,” Marie-Josephine said, keeping that wonderful, apathetic look on her face that thinly masked trauma. (Really, it wasn’t his fault that she chose to rummage through his things for the sake of an obsessed fan. Though he could, of course, understand how anyone could become obsessed with him, there were certain boundaries that had to be upheld. And restraining orders. Though the sizable amount of money that Marie-Josephine had gotten for the task was, at least, some consolation that she hadn’t entirely neglected his business sense.)

Then, she looked to the boy in her arms. “Do you really want to go...with…” and then, remembering herself, she added, with a glare his way, “ _ Grandpapa _ ?” 

He returned the stare easily. She was naturally talented in that arena, he would admit, however she was attempting to duel a master. 

Oblivious, the boy nodded his head. “ _ Please _ , Mum.” 

She let him down. “Very well, but I’m going with you to see that you stay out of trouble.” 

“Oh yes, we all know there’s nothing you hate more than trouble,” Elliot said, crossing his arms over his chest even as an easy smile remained on his face. 

“That was one time, dear,” she replied. 

“On our honeymoon!” 

She kissed him on the mouth, earning a gag from Pádraic and, really, Reaver had never understood the boy better than in that moment. “It certainly made it exciting, though, didn’t it? If I’m not back in two hours, call the guards.” 

“For your sake, his sake, or the sake of whichever poor soul you run into?” 

“Whichever comes first,” she smiled, and….oh, very well, there were worse choices that she could have picked. He had yet to think of any (Garth? That would certainly be a turn of events, after his going away party from Samarkand), but they certainly existed. 

Reaver stretched a hand out and, if she had the slightest hesitation at joining him, she refused to show it, her back straight as she took the proffered hand and pried herself away from Elliot. “Papa.”    
  
“How wonderful of you to join us this evening! For such a busy woman, I know that it is truly a momentous occasion for you to grace us with your presence.” 

She leaned in close enough that only he could hear what she said next, using her previously occupied hand to grip his shoulder. “If you corrupt my son, I will shoot you. And I have the sixth Dragonstopper,  _ fantastic _ aim, and I know where you sleep.” 

  
“Really, you think so  _ lowly _ of me,” he said, “And here I was hoping for some father-daughter bonding time.” 

“When are we starting the tour?” Pádraic said. 

“Why, right now, of course!” Reaver grinned, picking him up and putting him on his shoulders before Marie-Josephine could utter a word of protest. “And to your left, you will see the tallest tower in the castle, where your dearest grand-mére was shot out a window! Splendid woman. Which, actually, leads to the story of how the two of us met. You see, there I was, in my study, devoting myself to my intellectual pursuits, when who should come in but the Hero of Bower Lake herself, falling to her knees and begging me, ‘Reaver, please, I need you to help me, oh, help me, Reaver! For there is no one in Albion who is as handsome and as skilled with a gun as you’...” 

He smirked at the dome one last time, as if to say  _ You fully deserved that _ , then walked on, Pádraic leaning forward on his shoulders as he fired off a barrage of questions. 

A fool might even be convinced into believing the preposterous notion that he was enjoying himself and that the loss of the night’s other planned activities had not been so great as might otherwise be assumed. 

Only a fool, of course. 

  
Though, he consoled himself, if he did call him  _ Grandpapa _ , he could always “accidentally” drop the little demon into the nearest pool of water. 

**Author's Note:**

> Potential (guaranteed) trauma of having Reaver for a grandparent aside, Reaver is that one grandparent who loads the kid up on sugar and then sends him back to his parents when they ask him to babysit, I'm willing to fight over it. 
> 
> Incidentally, the reference to "one unfortunate exception" is, obviously, not referring to Reaver, who thinks too much of himself to put sex with him as a mistake (though Sparrow might have disagreed).


End file.
